What I've Learned:
Technology caught up to my lack of direction
Originally published in the Stamford Advocate on February 14, 2012
My lousy sense of direction is my dirty little secret. But it's time I came clean. The struggle to find my bearings has haunted me for years, resulting in countless hours lost on stretches of highway and clumsy excuses for late arrivals. When the grace period for getting lost ended after adolescence, it became necessary to compensate for my lack of an inner compass. I factored "getting lost hours" into drive times, and searched for picture clues in surrounding landscapes to help me decipher what was apparent to everyone else, the way a non-reading child might guess at written words.
At first my glitch seemed somewhat natural and I assumed that those who seemed navigationally gifted were the exception. But in time, as my peers, now equipped with their own vehicles, blossomed into directionally savvy drivers, I stayed behind like the bud that failed to bloom.
Although I can find my way around a pantry, and think on my feet as the teacher of a preschool classroom, ask me to drive into New York City and you might be waiting months for my return.
And there are a few more cities, besides New York, of which I am still rather terrified. I once spent a good part of two hours circling Norwalk over by the Silvermine area. This was followed by a subsequent drive to nowhere on an unscheduled tour of waterfront streets choked with one-way signs. Furthermore, in an earlier life, there was that trip to the West Coast, when I set off driving a minimum of two hours in the wrong direction.
Eventually as I grew more desperate behind the wheel of my confusion, I began to take a firmer stance on which way to go. I would choose a route, own my decision, and then drive in the complete opposite direction. This strategy more often than not resulted in my actually going in the right direction, until again, I became terribly lost. On one such evening, I sought help by following my oldest son on speaker phone as he manually led me along a dark country road using a grid he had pulled up on his computer. "Make a right at the next intersection, Mom, and look for your third left." The sound of his voice arriving to rescue me through the silence of the night was positively other-worldly.
The story might have ended here if I hadn't opened my car door on the morning of my birthday this past June to discover the sight of a GPS suctioned to my windshield. My family wanted to surprise me, and after running through some options, I settled on the voice of an Aussie I refer to as Curtis. For the most part, Curtis and I are certain to live happily ever after, but there are those occasions when, ruminating over old destinations, he startles me from a daydream or two with a down under command of "Go left at the next intersection. Go left! Go left! Go left!" Missing the turn sends Curtis into a recalculating frenzy until his stop button can be located at forty miles per hour.
My blind faith in Curtis failed me once when I was directed from Stamford to Hartford by way of Ansonia. Although the circuitous nature of my route sent a fleeting moment of alarm into my stomach, I plowed on, and only manually redirected my course when it seemed ridiculous, even to me. Still, an occasional off day seems inconsequential compared to being regularly and expertly guided by my virtual Australian.
For the most part I work hard not to lose my way. But when I do, I hope I remember to find perspective in unchartered roads and casual conversation, and in the bonus hours, where as a seat-belted captive, I've been free to wind and unwind so many of my dreams.
And now, well into my 50s as I disclose my liabilities one wart at a time, I wonder why I suddenly feel this much lighter.
In the end, it could be that by confessing, and wholly embracing what has probably been obvious to everyone else, I finally get to bring my fuzzy little map reader to the party -- even if I am a few minutes late.
What I've Learned:
What we can provide, and what we can’t
Originally published in the Stamford Advocate on May 24, 2017
A visit to my mother-in-law is never easy. As much as ardent caregivers at her nursing home try to create a comfortable sanctuary, given the constraints of short staffing, battle fatigue, and the absence of family, it’s not home.
My mother-in-law’s journey from living solo in her own house, through the accumulation of attendants, to a brief pause in assisted living and ending in full nursing care was, sadly, a systematic reminder of the body’s increasing decay and disobedience to one’s will.
Walking toward her room on a Sunday evening a couple of weeks ago, my eyes found the tartan blanket at the foot of her hospital bed, and I was reminded of how well-meaning family members banded together to recreate Barbara’s bedroom from better days, a lovely idea except for the moments when it would confuse her, the way set design can kind of resemble an actual interior, but not really.
“I know these are my things but I don’t think that I’m home,” I would sometimes hear her comment as clarity habitually faded at the end of the day.
At first, my visits would include small gifts of food, a tub of strawberries, a small cup of butter pecan, some hot coffee, light and sweet with a bendable straw. But gradually, her response began to dim and change. She would look away. When I asked what she was thinking, she once told me that she was sad about having to have so many things done for her, things she used to enjoy doing for herself. I thought that at 91, this was to be expected, but I nevertheless cringed at the thought of how this must have felt.
Looking over at her as she looked away, I caught sight of the wisps of hair escaping from an early morning attempt at a chignon.
Recalling the meticulous manner in which my mother-in-law presented herself to the world, it was my turn to look away. After all, this is a woman who once greeted me wearing a magenta lamb’s wool sweater with matching magenta lipstick, magenta clip-on earrings and a French twist.
“Would you like me to brush your hair?” I fished.
After a moment, she turned her gaze directly into my eyes. I felt the responsibility of that gaze, the weight of it against me.
“Well that would be nice,” she replied. “It’s a mess.”
I managed to relax the knots and untangle some of the confusion at the same time, and gathered her graying mane into a bun the way she used to wear it. I smiled and thought about how much I like the feel of my own hair in the morning while I brush it before work. Would I continue to take this simple task for granted?
“Lipstick?” I offered.
I applied it slowly and apprehensively as she pursed her lips into perfect position for application. Then I held out a tissue for her to pat between her lips.
“What color am I wearing?” “Pink,” I reassured her, “to match your nightgown.” Deciding to ignore the Johnny coat laid out on the bed, I dug into her drawers and located a flowered flannel gown and asked if she would like to sleep in this for a change. She shrugged, but when I returned 30 minutes later, after she had been transferred using the Hoyer lift from her wheelchair into her bed, she looked settled in, lovely and regal.
I thought again about what I legitimately couldn’t offer her in terms of true contentment. I also thought about what I could, in terms of momentary comfort; attainable perhaps in small steady increments of bath powder and toothpaste. Maybe, with enough momentum, this might even resemble something close to dignity.
Looking more deeply into my mother-in-law’s tender existence, I tried to see what I thought she ached to reveal, the memory of the woman she was, if only for a few shared moments.
Observing her in street clothes and makeup, delicately illuminated by the intermittent glow of the TV, I asked her if she ever pretended she was still in her house. After a long pause, she turned again to me and then replied, “There are some things you just can’t pretend.”
© 2026 Marietta Morelli